


City of Lost Engagements

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort/Angst, Comforting Castiel, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Hotels, Humor, Insecure Dean, Las Vegas, Lawyer Sam Winchester, M/M, Misunderstandings, Supportive but Sad Brother Dean, cute couple fluff, these tags are all over the place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 21:52:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17030661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: After ten minutes of searching the bathroom drawers, cabinets, and his luggage, he searches both nightstands. There’s nothing in Cas’s except two stray earbuds and a room service menu. Dean’s side—in classic Dean fashion—has travel-sized lube, assorted condoms, and his over-ear headphones older than Metallica’s feud with the Pirates of Musical Pizazz. Alas, no shaver.But there’s something else in there. Something that rattles on the hard wood when he opens it. Cas reaches in the far back and grabs hold the culprit. He pulls his hand out and his breath catches.





	City of Lost Engagements

**Author's Note:**

> Hellloooo! It's been a good minute, so hopefully this makes up for it. <3
> 
> I also have something special planned to celebrate my 300th fic on ao3, so stay tuned!

Cas’s idea of a weekend getaway doesn’t typically involve bathing in a sea of secondhand smoke, nor swimming in a school of sloshed, spineless fish hunched over noisy machines. On five-foot platforms in the middle of Loner’s Palace, fighting to reach surface-level water in eleven-inch stiletto flippers, exotic dancers share his discomfort.

A group of balding men in their fifties, too, develop a bond over crude remarks and an all-stakes game of pool. One of them catches Cas’s eye and flicks his ashes at him as they round the corner to registration.

Dean takes a step forward when Cas takes one back. He catches Dean’s bicep in the process.

“Dean, it’s okay,” he reassures, “we’re here for a good time, not a long time.”

“Cas, that’s not…”

Whatever Cas said is the needle Dean needed to pop that compressed anger. His face softens to accommodate the grin wrinkling his nose, and Cas can feel his body deflate underneath his fingertips. Cas has never understood most pop culture references, and would know even less about modern vernacular if it wasn’t for his teenage daughter, Claire.

He was so insecure about it when he put himself back out there that he bought and binged all twelve Star Wars movies (including _Ewoks_ and _Clone Wars_ ), watched every John Mulaney stand-up show, and downloaded an app called _Texting to Slang_ (which only garnered more concern from his family).

Keyword: Was. On their first date, Dean laughed when Cas didn’t understand why he used the term “meddling” to describe Claire’s unfortunate run-in with the police. And then again on their third date at the carnival when Cas just couldn’t win Dean that giant rainbow slinky, and referred to Cas as “Smalls”. The first birthday Dean spent with him, Cas gave him an unmarked, unwrapped box, which, well… you can imagine the level of concern Cas felt when Dean said he was disappointed it wasn’t Gwyneth Paltrow’s head.

Point is, Dean fell in love with him _because_ of his lack of inner circle knowledge.

And Vegas… Vegas is one helluva inner circle. He’ll never understand the hype around any of it.

“Reservations for two. Under Dean Winchester.”

The man at the check-in counter shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t see that name in our registry.”

“That’s impossible,” Dean continues, “I booked this two months ago.”

“Is it possible your name would be under a _Sam_ Winchester?”

“Sam? Sam’s my brother, but he… son of a bitch.”

The hotel clerk hands him the keys with a courteous smile. “Enjoy your stay, gentlemen.”

~.~

“Dean, quit sulking.”

“I’m not sulking.”

“I’m brushing my teeth facing the mirror and I can still tell you’re sulking.” Cas spits his remaining toothpaste into the marble sink. He wipes his mouth on the towel next to him, and takes one last look in the vanity before returning to bed. Dean’s still propped against the headboard of their rented bed, arms folded tightly over his chest, and taking advantage of something on Pay-Per-View.

“I just didn’t want him to spend all this money on our hotel, you know. It’s his weekend. We’re the guests.”

“Is it a money issue?” Cas probes. “Or is it a pride issue?”

Dean’s brother is wildly successful. In just under a year since he moved out here for his girlfriend’s family, Sam’s made it into _MYVEGAS Magazine’s “_ Top 100 Lawyers”. And it’s not like he’s pompous about his success. In fact, Sam’s one of the most humble men Cas has met.  But it’s hard on Dean, who was basically thrown into raising a six-month old child. He still feels it’s his job to look after Sam—not the other way around. So where most see Sam paying for their weekend stay as generous, Dean sees it as him failing to provide.

“God, I hate it when you’re right.”

“Mmm, I’d bet good money you don’t,” Cas teases as he shifts on the bed.

Dean hums when Cas climbs on top of him. He runs his hand underneath his own _AC/DC_ top that’s far too snug on Cas. “Or you can bet the shirt off your back.”

“It’s a deal, Mandel,” Cas growls into Dean’s mouth.

~.~

Sam and Jess’s place is only fifteen minutes from the hotel, but Dean’s blue button-down and slacks didn’t survive the trip from Lebanon in a frayed Jansport bag. And since he’s short an ironing board and a Corona del Sol, he has to venture downstairs to dry cleaning services. Quietly, he slips out with the door slightly cracked, so Cas knows he left.

Dean probably thinks Cas forgot about all the times Dean ironed Sam’s suits.

Cas props himself up after he leaves, stretches, and swings his legs over the bed. For once, his toes don’t feel chafed by the bitter morning air. Courtesy of the heated mattress with dual vibration for double the relaxation (or, if you’re Dean: perversion). The suite even came with complementary his and her slippers. Cas slips into the pink ones because they have softer lining and cute cats on the front. He makes his way to the bathroom and steps into the shower.

Slipping into his robe, and moving to the mirror immediately after, Cas sighs. His hair puts the Bellagio foundation show to shame, shooting straight up in every direction. The thick crescent bags under his eyes are just as noticeable, and even worse: His five o’clock shadow’s morphed into a seven o’clock.

And to top it all off, he can’t find his shaver.

After ten minutes of searching the bathroom drawers, cabinets, and his luggage, he searches both nightstands. There’s nothing in Cas’s except two stray earbuds and a room service menu. Dean’s side—in classic Dean fashion—has travel-sized lube, assorted condoms, and his over-ear headphones older than Metallica’s feud with the Pirates of Musical Pizazz. Alas, no shaver.

But there’s something else in there. Something that rattles on the hard wood when he opens it. Cas reaches in the far back and grabs hold the culprit. He pulls his hand out and his breath catches.

It’s a silver band.

A silver band with 360 two-carat diamonds.

“Morning sunshine.” Dean chimes across the room, hanging his freshly-pressed uniform on the door. “You won’t believe who I ran into downstairs. Dusty Hill. As in _the_ Dusty Hill, from ZZ Top. I’ll be honest, at first I thought he was another homeless guy angling for spare change, but he was washing a tuxedo, and then it hit me: _‘Sharp Dressed—‘_ ” He stops when he turns around and sees Cas holding the ring. “Man.”

The next few seconds are like something out of an old west showdown. The fixed stance. The intense, prolonged eye contact.

Cas is no John Wayne when it comes to confrontation, either. Especially when it’s something this big. They’ve joked about being married, sure. Usually when Claire does something bad—like ditch class to make out with her on-again/off-again girlfriend—Cas will tell Dean, ever the rebel in high school himself, to control _his_ child. But they’ve never seriously considered it… have they?

“You know, it’s not that I don’t _want_ it to happen,” Dean shoots first. Though, he’s not steady with his aim, the way his voice shakes. “I do. I just figured it’d be sometime in the distant future.”

“Oh believe me, I know, I feel the same way.”

“You… know?”

“Of course I know. Well… at least I _thought_ I did. Dean, we’ve been together for over a year,” Cas says, setting the ring on the nightstand. “But I’m not, by any means, in a rush to get married…”

“What?”

“What?”

“Wait, you…” Dean chuckles as he moves towards him. “No. No way. You thought I came here to propose to you? In a shitty downtown Vegas hotel with more fog than the California coastline?”

“Well… I had _hoped_ not…”

Dean grabs his hands. They’re calloused from years of mechanical work—the one thing that sets Dean apart from his father or “Sam’s older brother”—and warm, much like the man’s soul. “Cas, Sam gave it to me last night when he picked us up from the airport. He wanted me to keep it from Jess so she didn’t find it before tonight.”

“Sam?” Then it hits him. “Oh my God. Sam’s gonna propose… to Jess??”

“Yeah.” Dean scrubs a hand over his face and keeps his head level with the wood floor. “Yeah, no, it’s…”

“Dean, this is a good thing,” Cas says, realizing the mistake he made amidst his excitement letting go of Dean’s hands. Dean wasn’t doing it for Cas’s reassurance: _He_ was seeking it. “You have to have more faith in yourself. You raised a good man. He’ll take amazing care of Jess because he’s learned from the best.”

“What if he stops needing me?” he blurts.

“Sam called last night to ask you the difference between sirloin and tenderloin, he clearly still needs you.”

“But I don’t know who I am. I don’t know…”

Cas grabs hold of Dean’s shaky hands and brings their intertwined fingers to rest astride his cheeks. For every breath Dean exhales, Cas inhales. They do this for a few more seconds before Cas continues: “You’re Dean Winchester. You’re clever at all the wrong times, but gentle for all the right ones. You love cars, but you only call one your baby. You can’t stand people who use the word ‘legit’ to emphasize a point.

“You secretly love Kurt Vonnegut, and Taylor Swift _,_ and wearing shorts that not-so-secretly ride up just enough to tease your growing Victoria Secret’s collection.

“Even though you insist you’re not a softie, you’re incredibly thoughtful. You want kids, but only if they’re not biological, so they don’t inherit your freckles, or your lips, or your ‘elf ears’. You love horror films, but they always give you nightmares—even though I still think that’s just a plan designed to get me to cuddle you. And it works. Every time.

“And you don’t know all of that makes you beautiful.”

“Did you just quote One Direction at me?”

“Dean, pop culture references.”

“Right. Thank God for that.” Dean huffs a small laugh before resting his forehead on Cas’s. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Cas replies, bringing their hands to rest over Dean’s chest. “And I’m so glad you love me enough not to propose to me in a shitty downtown Vegas hotel.”

“Well, that still doesn’t mean we have to keep what happens here in Vegas.”

Cas raises his eyebrows, considering. “Not unless you’re counting on a big win.”

“Oh it’s a helluva win,” Dean confirms before claiming Cas’s grinning mouth.

 

 


End file.
